Rise of the Ice Kings: The Dream

"Play for me, Brandhol." Rathiel begged upon the second evening of eldest brother’s short respite at home."Play your whistle again, please? It's been so long since you played!"

"That's because I've been gone so long, silly," he replied, digging out his tin whistle from an inner pocket of his thick cloak. After a few short trills to warm up his fingers, he began to play a song that seemed to grow and mature as it progressed. Rathiel grinned and began to dance a few bars into the seemingly light-hearted tune.

The children's uncle, Hedhel, sent home from war on permanent furlough lay on the rug, dozing before the dying fire. At the sound of his nephew's playing, he bolted upright, staring wildly at Brandhol for a moment before calming slightly.  "I think it's time that you find your bed, Rathiel," he said hoarsely.

Silien looked up from her darning in surprise,"Goodness, child!" she exclaimed, "You should have been in bed almost an hour ago! Hurry and change now, I'll be along in just a moment with a warm brick for your feet."

The moment that both had left, Hedhel looked at his nephew with a haunted expression. "That was no child's song you played for your sister."

Brandhol shook his head, "They drilled us so hard, I’ve all but forgotten the old tunes of my childhood."

"So instead you told a story," Hedhel replied somberly, "Those were the last orders you were to give, weren't they?"

Brandhol answered by way of softly piping out the first few bars of his previous 'song'.  
The call to arms.

The second bar came then, trilling it's way past his lips, past his hopping fingers.
The call to march.</i>

"The march towards an ever approaching death," Hedhel interjected grimly, reliving the scene as he had seen it.

The third bar, followed by the fourth, stood as Brandhol answered with a lively, upbeat rhythm. It was the next order that he had given to the marching army that had listened for the King's commands that day.
To attack, and regroup as necessary.

"To look death in the eye as your heart breaks at the loss of a brother in arms, knowing that you too, may join him at any moment."

The once-cheery sounds of the tin whistle faded as nephew and uncle lost themselves to the memories of a bloody battle, a temporary win.

"Rathiel knows not what has shaped her dance." Hedeh sighed, deep in his melancholic recollections. "She should not dance, for it brings no joy."

"Let her remain innocent, and do not mention it again," Manthion said quietly as he entered from the back room, muddy boots in hand after tending to the few livestock that they relied on for milk and work. "She is but a child, and has not seen what you have seen. She may very well bring about the peace that I deem you two so dearly need."

***

Silien remembered her younger years with a fond smile. It was one of gratitude that the long nights of rocking the youngest two to sleep were over. She mused to herself as one foot kept the much-loved rocking chair moving in a steady rhythm with her darning. Instead, she had traded those long nights for early mornings. She rose before the sun now, to see to all of the chores that came with raising a family. The nights were now spent comforting and praying over those awoken by terrible nightmares.

The nightmares, the ghosts of pain, the memories. Those were the invisible scars that both her son and brother would carry with them for the rest of their lives; thanks to Foegaran's rising fears and the battles that came in their shadows.

That particular fact came to light just a few hours later when her eldest son softly  padded out from the side room, his expression beleaguered. Manthion noticed him first, pausing in his whittling. "Something the matter, son?"

Even as Silien looked up, Brandhol spoke, his voice hesitant and uncertain. "I had a dream."

Silien glanced at Manthion, sharing a silent exchange with her husband. Brandhol was far past the age when his childhood dreams would bring him to their side for comfort. "What was this dream?" she asked, motioning him further into the main room.

"In that forest of fear, I heard the King's call. He summoned me to his side, and said, "Draw your blades, for we go to rescue our people from the oppressive lies of our enemies, and to wash their fields with their blood.'" Brandhol said tonelessly.

His father listened as he continued his methodical whittling. "Go on," Manthion encouraged his son gently. "Tell me how this dream of yours ended."

Brandhol took a deep breath and plunged on with his description. "I suppose I did as he ordered, but when we reached the village that we were to attack, all I could see were ordinary people, tending to children and livestock, just as they would do any other day. I searched among their faces to find some hint of the evil that the Lord King saw so clearly in these people, yet I could see nothing. Instead, I found the faces of many neighbors and peaceful folk that I grew up around."

"And what did you do?" Manthion asked, still using his slow, seemingly unconcerned tone.

"I do not know," Brandhol replied haltingly, "King Foegaran gave the order to attack, and I awoke."

"It was surely nothing more than a dream," Silien quietly reassured her son. "Get to bed, and let it bother you no longer, for tomorrow brings a new day with it."

Brandhol nodded before bowing slightly. "Good night, Father. Good night, Mother."

"Rest well, son."

After Brandhol had left, Silien looked up from her darning, silent tears glittering like stars on her cheeks. Manthion, in turn, let out a ragged sigh as he dropped his head into his hands. "This isn't what I bargained for," he muttered. "I expected something like this from your brother, considering the fact that he saw the darkest parts of the last war…. but that was as a grown man! What does it mean when even my young son dreams of the dark times to come?"

Silien shook her head, unable to find the words to the answer that her husband so desperately sought. "What happened to the dreams we had for a happy family?" Silien whispered. "Great One, what have we done to lose your favor?"

* * *

They stood in the door, Brandhol supporting most of his friend's weight as the sun set behind them. "Mum, can you help?" Brandhol asked, gesturing towards Jerushura's half-slumped form.

Silien barely restrained her surprised gasp. "What happened?" she breathed, throwing her darning to one side as she stood. Brandhol sighed wearily.

"Can we come in? It's a long story, best told behind closed doors."

"You're not in trouble, are you?" Manthion asked, nudging the chair out of the way as he helped the two young men inside.

Brandhol opened his mouth to reply, but it was Jerushura who answered. "Not any more."

The moment that the door swung shut, Brandhol launched into the story that he knew both of his parents were waiting for. "I know that you are friendly to those that do not fully support His Majesty's more recent edicts. There a few like you, and fewer still who would take in one who was seen as defying those edicts.

"Am I to understand that your friend here took offense of some kind to the newest edict?" Manthion asked from where he stood in front of the cold fireplace.

"One that applies only to the Guard," Jerushura answered wearily. "You would not have heard of it."

"Do you remember the dream that I had last month?" Brandhol asked quietly. "Today, we lived it."

A sober silence fell within the room at those words.

"I refused to do what the King commanded," Jerushura explained, tentatively breaking the heavy silence. "I would not take innocent lives, not even if my king perceived some greater darkness in them. I paid the due price for my choice and take no shame in that."

"No shame, perhaps," Silien replied as she began to tend to his many bruises and hurts, "but harm nonetheless. I will do my best to aid you, but much of this only time and the Great One can heal."

"Then I pray that the Great One would turn His eye from this lowly soldier and heal the King's heart in my place. I am but one, Foegaran holds the lives of many."